


Where it Began

by CrepuscularPetrichor



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrepuscularPetrichor/pseuds/CrepuscularPetrichor
Summary: He can't begin to know
Relationships: Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	Where it Began

**Author's Note:**

> Recommended listening is “Sweet Caroline,” by Neil Diamond. This one is based on that song. 
> 
> Some of the early sections are drawn from history, pre-show, but where known history and the show diverge, I favor the show’s influence for this particular piece.

It is technically still spring, though the day is hot as a horse’s armpit after a two mile gallop. Hard to say what season it is in York City, though Caleb knows it’s the eighteenth of June and therefore still two days before the solstice. If that counts for anything.

_Do horses have armpits?_ he wonders, stroking down the side of a brown mare, thoughtfully munching on her hay. They’re using an inn’s stable, and the door stands open, letting the spring- ha, still, late spring- sun shine through and lend some light to the shadowy interior.

If you asked Caleb that morning why he was going to the stable, he wouldn’t have had a good answer for you.

“Here it is, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you.” An officer stands in the beam of sunshine, backlit, face cast in shadows. He is tall, broad-shouldered. In full uniform, Caleb can tell from his silhouette. As he steps forward, into the semi-darkness of the stalls, Caleb can see soft rapture in his eyes. The lieutenant- the other lieutenant, he should say- approaches a big dapple gray, hand sneaking into his pocket to withdraw an apple. The horse snuffles at his open palm, and he raises his other hand to stroke his face.

If you asked Caleb six months after the fact why he had gone to the stable that day, he would have told you it was so he could meet Benjamin Tallmadge.

“Morning,” Caleb says, his horse whickering as he pulls away from her.

The officer, startled, drops the remnants of his apple into the straw at the bottom of the stall door. The horse pushes against his hand, searching for more. “Hello.” His eyes slide over Caleb’s lack of uniform coat, trying to place him, to determine whether he is out-ranked or outranking.

Caleb lets him wonder. “You like him? He’s a favorite around here. Bit feisty, which all them lads want to beat out of him.”

The other lieutenant looks back at the horse, frowning.

“Not much of one for that method of discipline?” Caleb asks.

“I tend to think you catch more flies with honey. And you?”

“You’re much more likely to catch me with honey.” Caleb gets a quizzical look at that, and grins hugely.

The other man peers at him more closely. “You look familiar. Have we met somewhere before?”

“You don’t look like anyone I know.” And that’s true, because if Caleb had met a man like this before, he’s sure he would remember. He’s young, younger than Caleb by what must be a dog’s age, because Caleb has been working as long as he has been alive, and living rough on the sea for a decade, and he feels weather-worn by the rough northern winds. This man looks fresh-faced, like a lad who is more suited to a schoolhouse than a stable, much less the battlefield. Not that Caleb finds himself much suited to the battlefield either, not the one where you march in a straight line towards your enemy, and get close enough to see the whites of death’s eyes staring you down before you’re allowed to fire back.

The officer hesitates. “I’m Benjamin Tallmadge,” he offers, extending his hand to Caleb. He still doesn’t know Caleb’s rank, and doesn’t seem to remember yet that he should introduce himself according to his own. He’s certainly new to the military life.

Caleb sweeps the hand up, dragging Tallmadge closer to clap him on the shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Benny.” He reaches into Ben’s coat pocket, where he finds a second apple. He grins and tosses it high into the air on his way out the stable door.

He doesn’t know how he knew that it would be okay. Some officers would have burst a vein at such a familiar nickname, much less the overly-familiar hand in their coat. But Ben says nothing, just watches him leave, eyebrows slightly raised.

#

Spring became summer with the quick passage of time, moving ever faster, and Caleb doesn’t know if it’s the frentic pace of the war, or just getting older- his uncle always told him the years pass like the flicker of a firefly when you get to be ‘his age.’ He’s been saying it so long that Caleb thinks that time must be coming up for him soon, though he isn’t yet thirty. Not quite yet. He always makes sure to enjoy fireflies, though, when he can. It’s July now, but he’s spent the whole of June in York City, where there are bugs of all kinds, but no stretch of grass to sit out on, of a summer evening, and watch the slow flicker and twist as they rise above the ground.

“Brewster!” a voice calls behind him, and he turns to see Lieutenant Benjamin Tallmadge shoving his way between two ensigns to catch up to Caleb. A lock of his light hair is dangling above his eye. “I do know you,” Ben pants. “You’re Caleb Brewster. From Setauket.”

Setauket? _Tallmadge._

“Ahhhh,” Caleb nods. “You’d be one of the Reverend’s boys, then?” Caleb is certain he doesn’t recognize Ben, but gives him another once-over anyways, because why waste a good opportunity to look?

“Been a while since you’ve been home, eh?”

“I left to go to school at Yale.”

Caleb clicks his fingers and points right at Ben’s face. “You’re the Yale one. Even I heard about that, though I’d been away a while meself at that point.”

Ben gazes at him, examining his face. No doubt looking for any familiar feature, any sign that they were more than strangers. They’d last met a decade ago, when this man had been nothing more than a rowdy whelp, given to rolling his brothers in the dirt with his fists over small aggravations. Caleb remembers the Reverend’s boys. Wouldn’t have believed this man, young though he undoubtedly was, was that boy, come along to go to war. He’s grown into his gangly limbs and too-big blue eyes. Mercifully, he’s grown into his ears, too. In fact, all his proportions sit pretty well in order.

“Well, haven’t you grown up.” He didn’t mean to say it. It was exactly the kind of thing that Caleb had intended never to say in the whole of his life. It had always sounded patronizing when grown ups said the like to him. But somehow he hears it, and his voice isn’t like that at all. It carries a note of something else altogether, and Caleb doesn’t want to leave that hanging in the air between them. “It’s good to see you again, Tall boy.” Caleb claps him on the shoulder and walks away, before that undertone of affection has a chance to settle.

#

In August, they lose the Battle of Brooklyn. In August, they lose Long Island. Times are bad, but Caleb’s sure things can get worse. In September, he stumbles across Ben sitting on a log beyond the outskirts of camp. Deep into the woods. Caleb doesn’t know how he found him. Ben has a letter crushed in his fist, and when he sees Caleb, he swipes at his eyes, trying to destroy the evidence of tears.

“Someone close?” Caleb doesn’t really need to ask what’s happened. There’ve been enough deaths.

Ben hesitates, then nods. “A friend from school.”

They haven’t seen much of each other in the last few months. They belong to different regiments. Sometimes they’re not even in the same state. Still, Caleb sits on the downed log beside Ben, and carefully reaches for Ben’s balled up fist. He takes it between both of his own hands, holding Ben steady, touching his thumb along the backs of Ben’s knuckles until his grip loosens a little. Ben leans into his shoulder, apparently unwilling to fight even gravity anymore.

Caleb wants to say “it’s all right,” or “it will be all right,” but that’s not a promise he can keep. He prefers to keep his promises, when he can. Instead, he hums a few low bars of a drinking song he knows, that sounds soothing enough, without the words.

#

It is fully autumn, the air crisp, leaves falling off the trees when Caleb is assigned to Captain Tallmadge (Captain already, the boy sure works fast) for special detail. He meets Abe once more, after a long absence. Abe is between Caleb and Ben in age, so they both know him better than they knew each other. At least before this new assignment, because suddenly Caleb is spending a lot of time beside Ben. It’s not a bad place to spend time, aside from the shite with Simcoe getting away, and getting tangentially involved in Ben’s political nonsense with General Scott.

Aside from that, times are good. Better than Caleb would’ve ever imagined, during an active war.

When he gets back from his trip to Setauket, the one where he had to get Annie’s help to commandeer a vessel, he is carrying Abe’s letter from New York. He searches all about the camp to find Captain Tallmadge, and interrupts him shaving. When he asks “ready to be happy?” he truly hopes Ben is. From his smile, from the way he reaches out to pull Caleb into an embrace before even looking at the letter, Ben seems as happy as Caleb has ever seen him.

How is it that this smile can make his heartbeat echo in his ears, that Ben’s smile in the midst of war makes Caleb smile back? How is it that they share these moments now, when Caleb could never get this close to happiness in peace time?

#

The water of the river is frigid. Of course it is; it’s nearly the new year. Caleb drags Ben’s sopping heavy coat off him, asks a private to fetch him blankets. His hands are wet, but Ben is shaking, Ben is unconscious and Caleb has to do something. He stays with him all night, through to next morning, by which time the troops have long gone. No sense in launching a surprise attack at night if you delay for the sake of one officer. Caleb hopes the men will do well enough without him, because he’s not willing to leave Ben’s side. If he does, Ben will undoubtedly die. Ben seems to flicker into consciousness for a brief moment, and Caleb seizes it, rushing to him, trying to wake him, but Ben falls back into the depths of his river-begotten slumber. By the time evening falls, Caleb leaves for an hour with a wary look back, to kill something for their supper. Ben needs something to eat, more than he does.

Caleb skins the rabbit by the fireside. He cooks, he hums to himself, he looks up at the sky and he wonders how the ring will continue on without Ben. He doesn’t wonder how he’ll go on without him; he’s lost too many friends before to admit that this would be any different. He’s never felt loneliness much, but he’s never had much chance before. He knocks his head back against the trunk of the tree he’s resting on and sighs, ruffling his hair. He looks at the still-immobile figure of Ben by the fire.

It is seven interminable days before Ben wakes up. Seven. Days. In the middle of winter, and Caleb has been trying to keep him warm, trying to spoon feed him broth whenever he’ll take it, been trying to stop Ben from dying. Ben’s first thought is of the men, and somehow all the effort Caleb has made drifts quietly under Ben’s notice, like a path beneath new snow. But it doesn’t really matter.

Ben insists they go that evening to Trenton, though he’s still ill, and Caleb watches him as they tramp through the forest. When Ben looks to the stars for guidance, Caleb’s eyes stay fixed on Ben. He doesn’t need the sky and its cheap existential questions to occupy him, not while Ben walks just three paces ahead.

#

It is the way of the world that winter melts once more into spring, and 1777 is no exception. The weak sun is at least able to drive the ice from Caleb’s bones, to put some pep into his step as he prepares his horse for the long, long ride to Ridgefield. At least they’re doing something. Ben (a Major now, somehow, already) hasn’t been quite the same since the incident with Selah and Rogers. He’s been angry. After the taxes, the battles, the fight they’ve been fighting near a year, somehow with Samuel’s death the British have made it personal for Ben. He’s strung tight as a dulcimer that’ll break on the next note played. He’s determined not to make any more mistakes. To the extent possible, he keeps Caleb from making any on his behalf.

The ride through the woods is boring, though Caleb thanks Christ he ain’t walking like the enlisted men. He pats his horse, grateful for the ride.

Everything changes when they come upon Walter Havens, bound and escorted as he is by Continental soldiers. Everything changes when they go back to Setauket.

It’s strange how Caleb can go from feeling buoyant, light as air, from jubilant enough to smack Ben’s arse when he gets permission to raid the schoolhouse magazine, to feeling all his limbs drag him down, Ben’s knee in his back, heavy, unable to move, to fight, when he sees Simcoe shoot his uncle. The rest of the altercation is a blur. The rest of the ride back to Ridgefield, too. He finds himself staring at the dead eyes of his dead uncle. How could he have been so carefree, just that morning?

Ben seeks him out, once they’re back and the body has been taken from him. Ben wants to apologize for his part in Lucas Brewster’s death, but it’s not his fault so he can’t find the words. Ben sits beside him, taking Caleb’s balled up fist in his own two hands. Mimicking the reassurance Caleb gave him, when Nathan Hale died. But it isn’t enough, it isn’t anything, it’s been half a year since then and they’re— Caleb doesn’t really know anymore, except that Ben is always the person he’s gladdest to see in the world. He throws off Ben’s hands to wrap an arm around his shoulders and draw him in to a hug. He buries his face in Ben’s neck. Ben tentatively lifts a hand to stroke through Caleb’s hair. Caleb breathes hard. It takes a long time before he moves, nudging his face away so that his forehead rests on Ben’s shoulder, and he realizes for the first time that his skin has been pressed up against Ben’s skin, and he didn’t notice. He notices now, sliding his hands a little further down Ben’s back, feeling the rough stubble of Ben’s three unshaven days against his ear, his temple. Ben tugs on his hair, asking him to look up, and when he meets Ben’s eyes his heart is beating faster. He doesn’t know how, but somehow things are better than before. Ben looks like he’s trying to say something, he keeps opening his mouth and closing it again when no words come out. As he opens it the third time, instead of saying anything, he leans forward and finds a different use for his mouth.

Caleb hadn’t expected the first time he kissed Ben Tallmadge to be on the night after the loss of the last remaining member of his family. He hadn’t expected to kiss Ben at all, not really. He hadn’t expected Ben to kiss clumsily, inexperience giving way to a long-suppressed desire. But with Tallmadge in his arms, the pain of the day seems to melt away for a little while.

#

As spring turns once more into summer, Caleb finds Ben often.

Had it begun that night, after the Battle of Setauket? Had it begun before, last autumn when they’d been assigned to work together? Or had it begun that first spring, when Ben had unknowingly walked into a stable with Caleb waiting for him? He can’t begin to know.

This summer, he reaches out his hand, and Ben is there. At least, for a little while.

This summer, he touches Ben’s skin, and Ben smiles and leaves behind an imprint of his lips. At least, for a little while.

This summer, times are good, in a way Caleb never would have believed. At least, for a little while.


End file.
